The Sunday Whirl


It would seem I would search the earth to find that woman again. I would cross time to a new dimension if I thought I would see her there. Her hair as black and iridescent as a blackbird’s wings, her full lips painted in a natural flame of red that seemed to promise everything and do much more. And the creed of love she whispered to me in midnight meetings. I am meek no more, I unashamedly beg the wind to carry me swiftly to her side.


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